Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The ogre knocked the ax from Valun’s grip and thrust a meaty hand around his throat. Though trembling with pain, he lifted the minotaur up by the neck and, as the latter struggled, threw Valun like a rag doll at one of the larger boulders that had swept down.

  Thrown backward, Valun collided with the huge rock, snapping his spine. He crumpled in a heap near the boulder.

  For a moment, a look of intense glee filled the ogre’s ugly face—followed immediately by a stunned, dismayed expression.

  Faros, who leaped to his feet, had just buried what remained of the upper portion of his sword blade in the back of the giant’s neck.

  The ogre spun around, flailing. He glared at the minotaur … and then the bloodshot eyes glazed over.

  Faros leaped aside, letting the huge body collapse facedown in the reddened earth.

  Seizing the ogre’s huge weapon, Faros eagerly swung it around, hoping to kill more ogres, but none were near. He called out wild challenges and swung at shadows, intoxicated with berserker rage. His own followers gave him a wide birth.

  At last someone cried, “Faros!”

  Whirling toward the voice, he nearly beheaded Grom. A thin line of red decorated Grom’s chest; he stared at Faros in fear.

  “Faros! ’Tis me! Grom!” Yet Faros was still under some trance, and Grom had to duck a savage swing, aimed at his head.

  Slowly, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild, Faros lowered the ogre weapon as he recognized his compatriot. “Grom.…”

  “Aye, Faros.” The other minotaur swallowed, staring into the still-murderous face of his leader. “ ’Tis Grom.”

  Faros looked around. He saw only his own army. Wherever Faros looked, the enemy lay in bloody heaps. Some of the dead stared sightlessly toward the heavens, others looked as though they only slept. His standing order was that none be spared.

  “The plan went well,” he commented.

  “Well enough,” returned Grom, still eyeing him warily. “We lost some, though.”

  “To be expected.” Faros’s empty hand again shaped itself, gripping an imaginary whip. He gazed with satisfaction at the corpses.

  “Faros …” Grom said hesitantly. “Faros … Valun is dead. I think his neck and back were broken when he struck the rock.”

  Looking over his shoulder, Faros saw the limp body of the brave bone carver. A sandy-haired human with a beard knelt beside the minotaur, still checking for any signs of life. When the human sensed Faros’s gaze, he glanced up, then shook his head.

  “Been dead for several minutes,” he announced grimly.

  Prodding one of the ogre corpses to make certain that it, too, was dead, Faros remarked, “Valun’s leg slowed him too much. It was bound to happen. We all must expect that death’ll take us.”

  Grom almost said something, then his hand went to the thin red line where Faros himself had cut him. Lowering his horns in deference, he solemnly nodded. “As you say. I’ll see to the pyre.”

  And the prayers, no doubt, Faros thought with slight contempt. He dismissed Valun from his thoughts. “This wasn’t chance,” Faros said, halting Grom with his words. “They came for us this time. We caught this group by surprise, but they’ll be more vigilant when these don’t return. We need to move again.”

  “Where? If we go much farther south, we risk running into our own. You don’t want that.”

  “No?” Faros hefted a blade he had found near one body, testing its balance. He had a sudden vision of the minotaur assassins, the traitors, who had burned his home down and murdered his family. “I suppose not. Not now, anyway.”

  A jubilant half-elf with shorn brown hair and the slim build of his race, approached. “Faros! We must’ve slain nearly a legion’s worth!” He held up an ax that shone bright in the hot sun. “And look at what weapons they carried! New and plenty!”

  “You can never have enough weapons.” Faros retorted, tossing aside the sword he had picked up, as unfit for his needs. He eyed the nearest bodies. “Collect everything … bring me all the spears.”

  “Spears?” muttered Grom.

  “All of them.” Taking another sword, Faros swung it twice, then reached down and seized one of the dead ogres by its straggly hair. With one deft motion, he severed the head. “We need to leave a reminder behind … some mementos of our time here.”

  The half-elf grinned, running off to relay his orders. Still holding the head, Faros glanced at Grom, as if expecting some protest.

  Horns lowered, Grom nodded then, ax in hand, reached for another body.

  Like a gauze draping the face of a barbarian princess, the shield surrounding Silvanesti taunted outsiders with glimpses of the secret world behind the veil. But none could pass through the shield, and since its creation, the magical barrier had held back fortune hunters, the Knights of Neraka, and more. Now it mocked the finest of the legions, the pride of the minotaur empire.

  Across the eastern edge of Silvanesti, at the very edge of the shield, the legions did fruitless battle against the magic of the elves. They took their sharpest axes and their greatest war hammers and assaulted the barrier. Sweat matting their fur, eyes red with frustration, they mounted their attacks over and over.…

  All to no avail.

  What were physical weapons against such a magical force?

  Despite the futility of the exercise, Maritia insisted that the soldiers keep up a constant barrage. One legionary who stole some sleep rather than waste his energy was rewarded with a severe whipping. News of that punishment spread through the ranks, making the rest redouble their efforts, even if, privately, many of them harbored doubts about their commander’s wisdom.

  “Two more legions’ve arrived,” grunted one member of the Warhorse Legion, swinging the edge of his ax into the solid air. It struck the invisible barrier with a force that made his body shake. He snorted, sweat running down his extensive muzzle.

  “I hear Dragonsbane’s gotten some marching orders,” replied a comrade of his, whose preferred method of attack was running at the shield full speed and slamming his shoulder into it. So far all he had for his troubles was a sore, bruised shoulder. “Wonder what pirates are doin’ attackin’ supply wagons in Kern?”

  “Pirates, huh! More likely some strange ogre business! Be a good day when the emperor says enough’s enough, and we leave here to go slaughter the tusked beasts! Our allies! Can you believe it?”

  “Only thing worse than an ogre’s an elf,” another legionary down the line muttered. For the seemingly hundredth time, he was hefting a huge boulder to toss at the shield. “Only thing worse than an elf is beatin’ ourselves dead tryin’ to get inside this—”

  The boulder flew through the air, and to everyone’s amazement, landed yards ahead, burying itself in withered grass and dry earth. Other minotaurs fell on their own axes, stumbling forward. Many froze in mid-swing. Everywhere, the scene repeated itself, with gaping soldiers staring at the impossible. The land fell silent, as if it, too, were momentarily stunned.

  The shield … the legendary, cursed shield of the elves … had vanished.

  An army such as the greatest emperors of her race had only dreamed of awaited Maritia’s command, and yet for too long a time she had been able to do nothing but command their patience. They practiced their drills, attacked the shield, and waited.

  Both Galdar and her mother had promised the shield would fall and Silvanesti would open to the legions, but Maritia had begun to wonder if that day of days would occur during her lifetime.

  On the table before her lay countless reports concerning strength levels, supply deliveries, and battle contingencies. This part of leadership Maritia despised. She yearned for the cry of battle, the blood of the enemy …

  Not more paperwork.

  Snorting in frustration, she poked her head out of the entrance of her tent. “Summon General Orcius!”

  Moments later, the graying, pipe-smoking veteran appeared. General Orcius dealt with the day-to-day operations of the Warhorse Legion so Maritia coul
d plan the invasion as a whole.

  Helm in one hand, Orcius took the long clay pipe out of the side of his mouth and asked, “Yes, my lady?”

  “Any word from Dragonsbane?”

  He hesitated, taking a puff of his pipe and blowing smoke in the air. Off the battlefield, Orcius could be maddeningly deliberate. “Nay, my lady. The courier’s a day late, but that’s no surprise, is it? You wanted Argotos to assess the border situation. We don’t want our pretty allies thinking that we’re up to something.”

  “No, of course not. I just want to hear that somebody’s doing something, other than twiddling their thumbs! We’ve been camped here for weeks, sitting around like—like elves!”

  Orcius snorted in amusement, then took another puff of his pipe. “I recall when, one time under your father, we had to wait a year before—”

  A horn sounded, then another. And another. Another.

  Maritia and the general whirled to greet a rider approaching at a fast pace from the west. The rider was waving and shouting. When she spotted Hotak’s daughter, however, the rider clamped her muzzle tight and veered the horse toward the commander.

  “My lady,” gasped the young officer, a dekurian, nearly flying from her saddle. “My lady, destiny is upon us! Destiny is upon us!”

  Behind her, officers from every subcamp collected, eagerly anticipating the news.

  “Dekurian!” Maritia roared. “Remember yourself and your position! You will report in a manner befitting the legions!”

  The ponytailed officer pulled herself together. Standing straight, eyes staring ahead, she shouted, “Yes, my lady!”

  “Better, then! Now, report!”

  There was a flicker of her earlier jubilance as the rider exclaimed, “My lady, the shield has evaporated—less than one hour ago, all along the eastern border of Silvanesti. The cause is as yet—”

  “What!” Maritia could scarcely believe her ears. “Repeat that, dekurian!”

  Eyes wide and bright, quivering with excitement, the messenger cried, “The shield’s fallen, my lady! The magical barrier erected by the elves so many years ago has suddenly vanished. At last the way into Silvanesti is open!”

  The officers began to cheer, which rippled into a roar spreading through the ranks. Soldiers began running off.

  Silvanesti was open to invasion.

  General Orcius saluted Maritia. “We must take immediate advantage! The legions are already straining at the leash! They won’t want to wait another day! By nightfall rogue units will be sneaking out on their own so that they can claim the pride of first kill in Silvanesti! We must form up and impose discipline!”

  “The legions advance as per plan! Send word to the other commanders! Tell them that we will launch the invasion by midday! No one is to seek advantage over their fellow warriors!”

  “Yes, my lady!” snarled Orcius, dousing his pipe and summoning one of his adjutants. He then glanced at the milling soldiers. “Prepare battle lines. Spread the word! Go!”

  As he and the rest of the legionaries hurried away, Maritia seized the dekurian by the shoulder. Her voice throbbing, she asked, “Did you see it yourself? Did you see Silvanesti?”

  “I did, my lady! I saw the thick foliage, the towering trees! I think—I think I even heard one of the native birds sing!”

  Her words sent a thrill through Maritia.

  “Silvanesti …” she gasped, pushing past the eager messenger and staring excitedly in the direction of the unseen forest. “Silvanesti.…”

  Clouds hung overhead as midday arrived. A sudden tension filled the ranks, which leaned forward in anticipation of the signal. The drivers readied their teams, not wanting catapults and ballistae to lose any ground to the foot soldiers and cavalry. Legion officers raced back and forth among the lines, keeping order.

  Seated atop her chestnut stallion, Maritia bound her mane behind her then donned her war helmet. She wore a gleaming breastplate and a tipped kilt. The rich purple cloak of her rank, she flung back over her shoulders.

  “Now,” Maritia commanded.

  And with a wave of the imperial banner, a hundred horns and more bellowed the long-awaited call to advance.

  Their roars rising as one, the minotaurs poured into eastern Silvanesti.

  The ranks held even as the looming, shadow-infested forest took command of the landscape. Legends of the previous debacles were known to all the horned warriors. Warily as well as eagerly, they awaited the first strike of the enemy. The shield had fallen, but surely the elves would make a stand to defend their homeland.

  With General Orcius at her side, Maritia rode at the forefront of the Warhorse Legion. They were both surprised at the lack of resistance. No race was so pathetic, not even gully dwarves.

  “The forest is thickening more, my lady,” Orcius commented, brushing a hanging branch away from his chest. “ ’Tis time to let the Wyverns take the lead, I think.”

  She nodded. “Give General Bakkor the signal.”

  At a wave of Orcius’s hand, a nearby trumpeter unleashed three short, hard notes.

  A triumphant cheer arose from the north, releasing a flurry of activity accented by the clank of metal and the squeal of wheels. Special ranks of gloved warriors stepped ahead of the advancing army, spreading out to cover the entire front line. A cavalry unit led by a pinched-faced minotaur with low-set eyes spurred ahead to carve a path through the dangerous woods.

  Trained extensively in forest warfare, the Wyverns coursed expertly through the dense vegetation, moving like shadows despite their natural bulk. Many wore their fur almost trimmed to the skin, the better to avoid snaring leaves, branches, and traps to tangle or slow them. Their gloves were armored gauntlets that included jointed finger-covers ending in metal talons for securing grips. Unlike the rest of the legionaries, they also wore boots with ridged toes for climbing. With such uniforms, the Wyverns could swiftly ascend to upper limbs to survey the land ahead.

  Behind the climbers came General Bakkor’s mounted patrols. They marked the paths best suited for clearing, which were then set upon with a frenzy by foot units wielding axes, shovels, and ropes. All the catapults and ballistae were dragged behind.

  The first hint of any elven presence came when two legionaries were discovered sitting down against a tree, as though asleep. Their weapons remained in their hands, and at first glance, their faces looked restful. Only when their comrades looked closely did they see the faint red slits across their throats.

  General Bakkor then divided his officers, and sent small groups in different directions to scout and defend. Clasping tree trunks, massive minotaurs scurried up with the swiftness and dexterity of squirrels. High amid the foliage, Wyverns moved from branch to branch with surprising dexterity and quiet.

  As one of them reached for a thick cluster of leaves and entwined branches, a slender hand suddenly thrust through to grab the minotaur’s wrist. A slim, almost delicate dagger followed with astonishing sped. The minotaur gripped his throat, where his lifeblood now poured out. He fell back, tumbling through the branches with a series of loud cracks before landing dead at the roots.

  Hearing the loud noise and seeing one of their number drop, the legionaries swarmed toward the spot. A furtive figure could be seen moving swiftly away, vanishing among leaves. The kirath were experts at camouflage, blending indivisibly with their surroundings.

  But if this one thought to escape the Wyverns, he was mistaken. Five encircled the area where he was last glimpsed. One legionary leaped up into the trees, a short sword in his free hand.

  Shortly thereafter, the elf, his long, youthful visage belying his great age, dropped from the branch on which he had been perched. The five warriors surrounding him tightened their cordon, slipping toward the place where he had landed

  Even as he found his footing on the forest floor, the elf’s almond-shaped eyes darted around, and widened … for from behind the trunk emerged a sixth Wyvern, his hand ax already raised.

  The elf leaped at his horned
foe.

  But the skilled legionary cut him down in midair.

  As the elf died, writhing on the ground, a rider came up behind his slayer. The newly arrived Wyvern slapped a golden tag with the shape of his legion’s symbol upon the tree from which the elf defender had fallen.

  Immediately two foot soldiers emerged from the bushes, and set about chopping away at the tree boasting the metal tag, not only marking the kill but stripping the forest of the offending tree. A short distance back, the first of the catapults creaked to a halt, waiting for the path to be cleared and widened.

  And so it went. The kirath did their utmost to slow the conquest. They had no real magic to aid them, only cunning, skill, and their elf weapons. Slowly but surely the Wyverns drove them back, eliminated them. The Wyverns secured one area of the forest after another, methodically enabling the forward advance.

  General Bakkor fluidly moved among his troops as if oblivious to the target he might present to kirath high in the trees. When one shaft did fly close to him, the commander of the Wyvern ducked just in time. Without a change in his demeanor, he turned and pointed astutely in the direction from which the shot had originated. A moment later, short but swift crossbow bolts perforated the crown of the tree … and another of the kirath plummeted.

  It seemed hours before the minotaur troops reached the first elf settlement—deserted. The small village was not much, a place where clearly low-caste elves humbly dwelled, yet the grace with which their tapering homes blended into the tree trunks, or twined up into the trees, could be admired even by the minotaurs. Still, their admiration did not prevent the legionaries from tearing apart the very trees in search of signs of life.

  Even General Bakkor, watching the dismantling of the settlement, commented to his second, “A skillful flowing of the lines. The elves would put House Tyklo or Lagrangli to shame.” As Bakkor was a member of the latter clan—known for their long artisan traditions—the compliment was remarkable. “Now … if the searching has been completed, torch everything.”